


Fight or Flight

by CrappyRavioli



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1, Badass Jaskier, Canon-Typical Violence, Feral!Jaskier, Jaskier has wings!, Multi, but nothing really past that, but only at times, mentions of noncon, there are sexy times, winged au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:55:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23628805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrappyRavioli/pseuds/CrappyRavioli
Summary: Jaskier doesn’t know how to tell Geralt. He wishes he could but how could he- he’s never-no oneknows. No one. So he keeps his lips sealed and his wings tucked safely away from prying eyes.Aka: five times no one noticed Jaskier had wings and one time they really had no choice but to do so.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 26
Kudos: 764
Collections: oh YES





	Fight or Flight

**Author's Note:**

> Whoops! My hand slipped!  
> I wrote the majority of this in one day, didn’t touch it for a week, then finished it at 11 pm last night and just proof read it now at 5:30 in the morning so Be Kind. It’s also my first work in the fandom, because I can’t helps but just absolutely devour all of this like a small grubby child at an all you can eat candy buffet  
> Anyways, thnx for coming to my ted talk

1)  
Jaskier was sitting outside of the cave, per Geralt’s request, of course. The sun was high in the sky, illuminating the ragged ground, light dancing across the patches of tall grass that somehow survived in the arid climate. The day was blue, bright and clear, and if circumstances were different, he may have found himself spreading his wings and taking off for a bit. As it were, Jaskier instead strummed idly on his lute, hoping Geralt brought a good tale out of that cave; if the way whatever beast it was roared around inside was anything to go by, it had good potential. They’d barely gotten into town that morning when the blacksmith had asked them to get the beast, said is was killing their merchants and anyone traveling into the south side of town. They didn’t know what it was, just that it was dangerous. Geralt had seemed to agree, and thus, by his insistence, Jaskier stayed outside. He really didn’t feel like getting his shirt dirty that day anyways, so he agreed. It was one of his favorites.

Now, what rhymes with cave? Rave? No, save? Maybe... Brave! That ought to wo-

A hoarse cry shook him from his thoughts, then the next moment a shrill, deafening scream echoed out of the cave. It felt like the red earth shook under his feet, and something cold seized his soul. With Geralt’s bag in hand, he crept towards the entrance, where Geralt had slunk into like a panther stalking prey. The mouth of the cave was buried down into the dirt, more of a hole in the ground, and the entrance was craggy and filled with rocks. From the dusty entrance, as Jaskier looked down over the edge, he saw Geralt stumble into view. Covered in blood.

“Geralt!” He called, and he was rewarded with the man looking up with a grimace. His eyes almost looked cloudy, and his gait was anything but smooth as he swayed and stumbled. He was a far cry from from graceful beast who’d slipped in barely an hour earlier.

“J-jas,” he ground out. As he got closer Jaskier could see a deep, bloody wound on his left shoulder. It looked like he couldn’t move his arm. Geralt tried to make his way out of the jagged entrance one handed, and got about 2/3 of the way up the thankfully short incline before he stopped.

What happened next felt as if it was in slow motion. Jaskier watched as Geralt stopped climbing, saw the way his eyes lost focus and slipped shut. His knuckles, white with how they gripped the rock in front of him, turned pink.

Jaskier knew he would fall. And if he fell, he wasn’t sure whether he would survive, could just imagine the sound his skull would make when I connected with a sharp rock. So Jaskier lunged forward, and the feeling of Geralt’s wrist under his hand was heaven for a moment. Just a moment, before Geralt’s weight was pulling them both backwards and, well that wouldn’t do.

Wings unfurled from Jaskier’s back like ocean waves, landing on either side of the mouth of the cave. There was a sharp jerk, a yanking along his spine as they were pulled to a halting stop. His legs stayed uselessly sat on solid ground, but his entire upper body was suspended over open air. Geralt’s feet acted as a pivot point agains the wall and Jaskier’s grasp on his friend was the only thing that prevented him from plummeting into a rocky death. Jaskier pulled Geralt up and into his chest, holding him tight. It was only with his wings that he managed to drag them out of that treacherous cave. Thank gods Geralt was out cold, although, if he hadn’t passed out none of this would have happened. Jaskier let his wings slip away as he laid Geralt across his lap. He has a huge chunk taken out of his shoulder, and a very bloody couple of slashes down his right flank. Jaskier scrabbled in the bag for extra cloth that he pressed on the shoulder wound.

The slashes were already starting to slow their bleeding, but the shoulder wound- it looked like it could kill him. And that sent a wave of fear crashing over Jaskier, because whatever potions Geralt had in his bag wouldn’t do him any good if he couldn’t tell Jaskier which ones he needed and they needed to get to a real healer, quickly. 

The only problem there in was that they’d left Roach in town so she could rest, and it was probably an hour walk from the cave back to the central part of town where a healer might stay. Jaskier couldn’t carry Geralt for an hour, probably couldn’t even carry Geralt at all, not in this form at least, and his wounds couldn’t wait for Jaskier to run to town and bring someone back. So he once again really didn’t have a choice.

He tied the fabric tightly across the wound and let his wings spread once again. Jaskier thanked the gods that he had enhanced strength when his wings were out, and wrapped his arms around Geralt. Then they were flying, and it was the first time he’d ever held anyone as he flown but it wasn’t terrible. Just awkward, trying to balance his lute, Geralt’s bag, and, well, Geralt, all while flying. He took a deep breath. He would do this for Geralt. Jaskier would find a healer, and Geralt would be fine. He’s be absolutely fine if he did this, he knew. So he kept flying.

2)  
They’d known each other for a little over ten years when Geralt called his singing a fillingless pie. He knew Geralt didn’t actually believe it, but that didn’t stop him from being petty. In fact, it really only caused him to be more so.

This was a mistake. It was also how they met Yennefer of Vengerberg. Which. Well. There were worse things that had happened to them.

And sure, Jaskier went through a lot of emotions about the situation, fear and anger that Geralt went back into the building, relief at seeing him alive, arousal later thinking back to the picture the two terrifyingly beautiful people had made, back to jealousy when it felt like Geralt was chasing her, devoting all of his thoughts to her when their paths crossed. But eventually that jealousy settled into something easy to stomach as he realized the Geralt always left, continued forward with Jaskier and not Yennefer. Whatever Yennefer meant to Geralt, Jaskier meant something more to him, and that was enough to make it bearable.

It was months later, early spring, when Jaskier saw her again. He was not with Geralt, the witcher having gone off to do whatever it was he did during winter. He knew they’d meet up soon though, and Jaskier wasn’t worried. He’d set himself up at some cushy inn near Cintra, and he played there almost nightly. When he wasn’t, he played gigs at royal banquets and balls, checking in on Geralt’s Child Surprise. She was a wonderful girl, and with her bright blonde hair and blue eyes she looked just like Pavetta. And she’d taken a vested interest in Jaskier, which was absolutely adorable, to be frank, if not a little disconcerting. He was apparently the only musician she’d become so fond of. 

But that night he wasn’t at a Cintran ball or party or banquet, he wasn’t even presently playing at the tavern under his nice room. He was sitting at a bar instead, staring at the witch who just entered. She was unmistakable, filled with poise and grace and something dangerous underneath, her black hair falling gracefully over her furred shoulders. Unforgettable purple eyes.

Purple eyes that landed on him of all people, and soon she was stalking towards him like he was prey and in any other circumstance that would be wildly attractive. He wasn’t kidding himself, it still was extremely attractive. He just didn’t let himself focus on that part.

“Hello bard,” she said with a not at all friendly smile, sliding in to the seat besides him. “A glass of your finest please,” she called to the bar tender.

“Mm. Witch,” he said, smiling back.

The air in the room was stale and smelled of alcohol, and despite the repute of the place, the cold night air wasn’t fully cut by the heating stoves that warmed the room. Yennefer looked out of place in the environment but she seemed perfectly in control; she drew attention from all corners of the room 

“When I was healing you,” she began, glancing around the room with little interest, “there was something weird about you,” she said as she received her drink, sipping idly. “If I wasn’t so distracted I would have looked into it more, but some things can’t be helped I suppose.”

A spike of panic flowed through his blood but he didn’t let it show. He’d always been amazing at hiding his secret, and now was no exception. “Funny, must have been something to do with the djinn, because I’ve felt fine ever since then,” he replied with the same tight lipped smile they’d been exchanging since they started taking. 

It was weird, truly. Every time they spoke there was a certain air of ice in her gaze, although they were never together for more than a few words. This time was different. There was more curiosity in her eyes, and with his response, a little bit of clarity. Possibly even some understanding. She huffed. “Perhaps I was just sensing your idiocy. Foolish men tend to have odd auras.” And her smile was still icy but it felt a little something like respecting his wish for privacy.

“Perhaps it’s that you’re so unused to men with any decorum of humor being around you that you can’t fathom something new.”

She only hummed in response, seemingly satisfied that she’d won- well, whatever their conversation could be called.

He was eager to get away from the exchange none the less, and he knocked back the rest of his ale and picked up his lute. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a crowd to please,” and despite his best efforts, even the thought of actually performing made his smile less fake and more playful, and he turned before she could catch it. It wouldn’t be good to have the extremely gorgeous witch who Geralt chased after like a dog after a bone to fall for his charms and all.

(Or for him to fall for her charms, although he supposed that was far more likely to happen than the former. He had quite the record to prove it.)

As he made to step away, he felt a delicate hand on his elbow, and his eyes met oddly sincere purple ones. “If you’d like for me to make sure you’re not under anyone’s spell, I’d be happy to check for you.” Something about the way she held herself said she assumed this wasn’t the case, yet she offered anyways. How... disconcerting. He wasn’t used to this creature of ice acting so- warm.

The words were briefly disarming, but Jaskier snapped his brain back to keeping his secret, and tried his hardest to shift his expression to something neutral as he said, “Thank you, Yennefer, I appreciate it. Like I said however, I’ve felt fine, so you needn’t trouble yourself.” And he turned and walked away. 

That night, if he played with extra vigor it was because he was gathering extra coin to leave soon, certainly not to prove anything to anyone.

3)  
Jaskier was once again traveling, but he was on his own, his steps the only noise in the forest as he walked, besides the spring birdsong and the rustle of branches against one and other. It would be really nice to let his wings unfurl so he could stretch them a bit, maybe fly to the next town, but he had heard, a town back, that Geralt was in the area. Despite how unlikely it all was, Jaskier found himself hoping that he might run into the Witcher somewhere along the way.

Foolish, he knew, yet a fool’s blood coursed through his veins, and a fool he knew himself to be. Being foolish had payed off considerably over his years.

He strummed his lute as he walked, humming a tune. He thought of gold and purple, black and white, and cursed his wandering heart.

The sky was filled with clouds, the trees covered in tiny, bright blossoms. It was a warm day, perfect weather one might even say. The wind was crisp and brought the fresh scents of pine and cedar. Jaskier let the beauty of it all wash over him, the peace and wonder filling his head with floating rhymes and lilting chords. 

That’s when he heard the snap of a twig, the sound it made when crushed by a heavy boot, and he stopped dead in his tracks, let himself listen. Geralt gave him a dagger some time ago, and he pulled it out hesitantly. He really hoped he wouldn’t have to defend himself seriously, wouldn’t have to defend himself it all, yet traveling for years with a witcher taught you something about caution. If he had to pull his wings so he could get the full force of his strength, his sharp nails and sharper teeth, he’d have to kill whoever it was. That was just how it went. No one could know because the winged were hunted for sport, and even when thought to be all dead and gone, their wings were still sold and traded between nobles like trophies. Jaskier still remembered the first time he’d seen a pair displayed like art in the ball room of a grizzly, old noble. He remembered the way that the noble mistook his horror as awe and explained, jovially, that he’d made the kill himself. That it was the most fun he’d had killing anything. Jaskier had almost thrown up then, but he barely kept his composure and forced out his songs for the evening with faked cheer. He did not sleep for the next week.

At the silence that followed his pause he continued walking, hoping it was just a wild animal or his imagination. He didn’t continue strumming his precious instrument though, and he kept his dagger in hand. He stayed light on his feet, kept his ears open. Hoped it was nothing.

It was about five or six steps later, a figure sprung from the underbrush to his right and he turned as fast as he could but it wasn’t fast enough. His grip on the dagger slipped as he was thrown to the ground, pinned under something heavy, and the bandit knocked it away. Another pulled his lute away. It seemed there were only two, yet the one pinning him down was a burly man, and in his human form, Jaskier wouldn’t even have been able to take down one of them alone.

In a different situation, he would have considered the tall woman holding his lute to be beautiful, in a strong sort of way. She had a thin frame covered in rippling muscle, her arms bare on the nice day, and deep grey eyes that were terrifying in their intensity. He would’ve considered the man alluring as well, in a sort of rough way, if he couldn’t smell the man’s breathe.

“H-hello there!” He managed on a ragged breath, and he knew his smile was more nervous than anything, but he couldn’t help it. No matter what he could do, it really was only last resort. He _hated_ killing. It left him sleepless and sick for days, made him feel dirty and worthless. Jaskier spread music, spread life, not death. “I’m sure there’s a more-“ his voice hitched as the man shifted his weight on top of him, putting an unnecessary and uncomfortable amount of pressure on his thigh. “A more _civil_ way of going about-“ a kick to his side from the woman knocked him silent, left him gasping for a breath.

“Look at ‘im!” The one standing, holding his lute, said, a thick accent marring her words. “Useless witout ‘is Witcher.” She leaned down over him to look him in the eyes. “Now, li’le bard,” and her breath was rancid too, her teeth a gnarled, chipped brown, like tree roots growing from her gums. “Why in the worl’ would we wanta do this any oter way?”

He winced, realizing that these were the worst type of bandits. They were the type to hurt others as much as they could just because they wanted to, and if Jaskier had to kill them, at least he’d be stopping them from attacking anyone else like they did him.

“A-ah, my lady,” he pushed out as Burly shifted his weight again, grinding his one father into the muscles on his thigh, and if that kept up he wouldn’t be able to walk. “I am far more useful alive than dead!” He was nervous and it was a last ditch attempt, but in that moment, if they decided to press him on how, it would fall apart. He couldn’t seem to think of one reason he could give them. The thought annoyed him. That was no way to be thinking, not now at least.

None the less, they didn’t seem to buy it, or even care. “I tink we should ‘ave a li’le fun wit dis one, dontcha tink Boris? ‘E’s weak, yet ‘e tink’s ‘e’s special, followin’ da monsta huntin monsta like a kicked pup!” And the words, the accent, the _breath_ , it all grated on Jaskier, and he could feel his nerves fading away, could feel his pulse quickening from the heady pulse of anger. Geralt was anything but a monster. He always hated when people talked less of his closest companion.

“Maybe we shoul beat ‘im an snap ‘is neck an’ leave ‘im here for the Witcher to find,” Burly -Boris?- said, and his breathe was rank in Jaskier’s face. At least his accent was less annoying than Tree-Root-Teeth’s. 

The implication in that statement was not lost on him, but it really only complicated the situation. Jaskier wanted to lash out but kept a hold of himself. He was nearing a point where killing these two imbeciles wouldn’t be all to upsetting, but he had to know first. His mind was calming as anger cleared the useless thought flitting around his head. “Geralt is around?” He asked, plans running through his mind. If Geralt was close enough he could save him from all of this without having to pull his wings at all, he wouldn’t have to kill these bastards. The likelihood of his companion arriving before things got out of hand was low to nothing. No, it was much likelier that Geralt would arrive _after_ things got out of hand, and he’d see some things that Jaskier would prefer to avoid.

The woman laughed. “‘E’s not close enough ta hear ya scream!” The two seemed to think that was the funniest thing in the world, and they laughed in his face. For one petrified moment, he thought he felt a slimy drop of spittle land on his cheek.

The way she held his lute during it all, like it wasn’t something precious, was what really sealed the deal on everything. That lute, Filivandrel’s lute, was almost more important to him than his own life, and not just because of the golden notes that he could draw from the smooth strings.

He’d had enough. If Geralt truly wasn’t close enough to show up because he heard Jaskier “scream” then he wouldn’t show up while Jaskier had his wings out, and that was enough for him.

He let a smile curl his lips into something feral, and his teeth were already a little too sharp to be human. “Good,” he said, his voice rattling a bit with unchecked anger and pain and the weight on his chest, and he let his voice carry as they both cut off abruptly. “That means he’s not close enough to hear _you_ scream either.”

He reveled in the way that their confused looks changed to horror as his wings spread out under him and his teeth and nails grew sharp. And in their moment of hesitation he head butted the man, knocking him off balance enough to free his hands. The satisfying crack of the man’s nose cracking under his forehead did nothing but further his frenzy. He clawed the man’s throat out and threw him off and away from him. The woman didn’t run, instead she pulled out a long knife and launched herself at him. Her grey eyes held storm clouds of anger now too, fogging up the sick satisfaction he’d seen earlier. Good.

Jaskier may have had superior abilities but he still wasn’t a fighter and his thigh still ached, and a cut landed deep in his shoulder. He howled in pain, letting his eyes grow brighter and teeth grow sharper at the sting of it and he threw himself head first into the fray. Cuts and punches soared back and fourth, and he knew he would be sporting a nasty black eye in a day, when he finally grabbed her knife and stabbed it into her stomach. She wailed in pain, and he felt something in him glint, something like satisfaction, as he twisted the knife, before yanking it out of her side. Her cry died off relatively quickly after that.

It was all so messy and his hand was covered in the man’s blood but the two were down and he let his wings fold away. He staggered over to where the dagger Geralt had gave him sat, untouched in the dirt. He cut of the dead man’s gashed neck with it for good measure, covering the blade in red, and maybe hopefully making the wound look more human. He picked up his lute after wiping his hand on his already ruined pants and started walking.

Barely 10 steps forward and he felt his body start to ache, adrenaline slipping away. Jaskier was overtaken by the sudden urge to just curl up and sleep, and honestly, nothing was stopping him. He stumbled over to a tree and laid his head back, slumping to the ground as a whine drew itself from his bloodied lips. Something wasn’t right. Time didn’t feel real as he let his thoughts slip to and fro. He was loosing blood, yet he was too tired to do anything about it. Part of his mind was screaming at him to put pressure on his shoulder. He didn’t, could only groan at the pounding in his skull. That was when he heard hooves pounding down the road, and something about them was comfortable... sounded like home... and he let himself slip away for just a moment.

4)  
He blinked his eyes and Geralt was in front of him, and wasn’t that lovely? And his vision was still swimming and he didn’t enjoy it one bit... but he was so sleepy, if he could just-

“Jaskier!” The sharp, deep cry snapped him back to something closer to reality. Everything hurt, the light especially, and he let out a long whine. He felt pressure being settled over his shoulder.

“Geralt?” His voice was weak and shaky. He didn’t sound like himself, and he forced himself to focus. Why was he so dizzy, from just one cut? It was a terribly deep cut, but he shouldn’t be this close to passing out. Blood loss didn’t kick in that fast. He’d dealt with far worse. He thought back to the fight, gritting his teeth against the pounding in his head. For Geralt. He remembered that when he let his senses sharpen during the fight, he smelled something sour, and it sat disgustingly heavy on his tongue. It was bitter, and strong and- “p-poison. On the knife,” he managed to get out. A wave of nausea shook him, and he groaned, squinting a Geralt’s beautiful, blurred form. “‘M sorry,” he mumbled on numb lips, and it was barely a moment later that he passed out.

Jaskier woke up in a clearing, the smell of smoke heavy in the air. He could hear the slow scrapes of a sword being sharpened, the grindstone making the metal sing, and he opened his eyes to the sight of his Witcher hunched on a log besides him. He tried to sit up but pain laced through his system and a groan pulled itself from his throat. In a minute he could feel Geralt hovering over him. He let himself smile. Always his knight in shining armor. “Hi,” he whispered. And Geralt was saying things but his voice was deep and calm and soothing, and he was asleep again. 

When he woke up the second time, it looked to be about mid day, and Geralt was brushing knots out of Roaches mane. He felt much more lucid and well rested, and he even managed to pull himself into a sitting position without too much pain. He remembered the fight, then Geralt was there, and then there was nothing. A clearing. Nothing. And now. “Geralt,” he called, his voice rough from lack of use, “how long have I been out?” The witcher turned at the sound of his voice and walked over to him.

“Two days,” he replied, and his eyes roamed over his features, concern turning to satisfaction at whatever he saw. “What happened?”

“Aw Geralt! You do care!” He said, reaching up wipe aways fake tears. He winced in the process, and Geralt reached out to push his hand back down, gently, a quiet “hmm,” breaking the air. “Bandits. I think they wanted my lute, and well, that simply wouldn’t have worked out, now would it? Because I value her more than myself and they couldn’t simply try and take her from me, so I just _had_ to act. I must have picked a thing or two up from you on our travels because I really did just act. And then they were dead and I felt like I was going to nap for a century,” he rambled on, hoping to annoy Geralt into letting it go. “And then you showed up and I couldn’t have been happier because everything hurt and I’m fairly certain I may have died if you hadn’t shown up and well, that wouldn’t have been good either. I quite like my life.” The part about Geralt saving him, at least, was true. But that also begged a question. “Hey, Geralt? How did I survive poison in the middle of the woods?” His voice was a bit higher than normal, curled by a combination curiosity and fear.

“I could smell it,” Geralt said, and that really explained nothing. He continued at Jaskier’s dismayed look. “The poison. I could tell it wasn’t enough to be serious. Your body just needed to rest and process it.” 

No matter what he’d always be thankful for his Witcher, even when he moved on to grill him about the weird way the male bandit’s neck was literally ripped from body.

5)  
There’d been a little over a year of peace. Contracts coming and going, performances brightening his eyes. He hadn’t needed to use his wings at any point he didn’t strictly want to, and even while traveling with Geralt, he managed to find enough alone time to let them out and clean and stretch them. They’d found themselves in a small town with a Nest of drowners, and it was so routine that Jaskier just stayed at the pub while Geralt went to deal with them. No story to be gained, and nothing Geralt couldn’t handle on his own.

It was sitting at the bar then, that he heard a whisper of “purple eyed witch” and “shackles” and his heart picked up. He tilted his head to hear more. The towns people seemed hesitant towards the two when they’d came in. Not unfriendly, more so like a child trying to get away with taking a cookie while their parent glared at them.

The bar tender caught sight of him listening, and waltzed over. He was a buff man, tall and built and covered in hair, and he might have appreciated him more if his wasn’t so far off in his own head.

“You seem interested, bard,” he said gruffly.

Jaskier allowed himself to hum noncommittally, before saying, “It sounds interesting. Good source material makes the best songs,” and he flashed his most charming smile. Better to play it safe than to alert the entirety of a possibly hostile bar to whatever it was that was going through his head.

“She came in to town with offers of magical remedies for a price. Lord Henry Azul forced magic snuffing cuffs on her in this very bar. It’s a shame, she was doing good work for our people,” he explained, walking a bit to get drinks for customers.

“Oh, she sounds lovely,” he acquiesced. It indeed did sound like Yennefer. “And what of this Lord Azul? Not a crowd pleaser it seems,” Jaskier asked, testing the waters.

The bar tenders snorted, leaning his burly arms on the counter. “Between you and I, that man can be drowner bait for your friend if he needs some. He’s a slimy bastard.”

And Jaskier laughed, because that was all he needed, wasn’t it?

He bid his adieu minutes later with a wink after getting general directions to the lord’s estate and giving the man a brief smile that offered quite a bit more than friendship while he was in town. He wanted to come back to that later.

He set out with a pep in his step, because while the peace was nice, he was feeling a little bored stuck in the tavern, stuck in the ease of everything, a sort of boredom that not even good company could fill. (Unless the company was Geralt, but he already knew the hows and whys on that and he didn’t want to get too into it at that point.)

He approached the estate he’d been directed to. It was surrounded by a large brick fence, and the fence surrounded by thick forests. There were plenty of trees inside the enclosure too, enough to obscure the home itself, and Jaskier could only see the path winding into the thicker of trees. At the gate in stood a guard. He didn’t necessarily want confrontation, but he knew his strengths and his wings weren’t necessarily discreet. He couldn’t hop the stone wall without them, but really, they weren’t mean to help him sneak around, so he made his choice.

“Hello good sir!” He called as he approached the guard that stood out front. The man looked confused at his approach. Good. He was about the same height as Jaskier but broader, rounder. He was bald and his sword looked dull. Jaskier smiled brightly.

“What business do you have with Lord Azul?” The guard sounded tired and annoyed, and Jaskier could only hope that his ploy, which he’d thought of only as the words came from man’s mouth, would work, or else he _would_ be sneaking over the brick wall that surrounded the estate. 

“He, ah-“ he put his best abashed front on. The lords first name was Henry right? That’s what the barkeep said, he hoped. He really, really hoped so. “I’m here to surprise Henry with a private show,” he finished, his eyes gaining a sultry glint and he showed his lute. A double entendre. He _hoped_ this worked. It would, he told himself, if he’d interpreted the barkeep correctly. Jaskier had always been good at picking up on the hidden meanings in other’s words, he just hoped it pulled through now.

To his immense relief, the guard just rolled his eyes and let him in, but Jaskier was nothing if not a risk taker, and he pushed, “where is the lord right now?” He even batted his lashes.

The guard gave him a look, a mix between lecherous and withering that would make a lesser man shudder, but continued anyways, “he spends an awful lot of time with that sorceress that he picked up. Seems to enjoy her hatred of his company. He keeps her in the second bedroom on the left, second floor.” And wasn’t that interesting and helpful.

So he made his way, practically bouncing with energy and excitement as he walked down the path towards the house, the prospect of doing _something_ absolutely wonderful. When he got out of sight of the guard, and caught sight of the main building, he slipped around the back of the house. Considering the directions, second bedroom on the left, second floor, it all was in relation to where the stairs were. If they were around the center of the house and went up towards the back of the home, as they often did, then the window the the room would be right around... there. If his guess was correct, the one window with the shutters closed should be the right one, and it seemed promising. Shutters for the gods’ sakes.

He took a moment to take in his surroundings. The yard was empty, most of the windows were dark, but open in the warm air. The windows had deep sills that someone could probably easily stand on, but no easy way to get up there.

At least, for a human. 

He let his wings out after one last cursory glance around, and propelled himself up. He landed gracefully on the sill, but it was a little thinner than he thought and his hands scrambled for silent purchase; he hoped he didn’t alert anyone who was inside the room of his presence. Before he tucked his wings away, he let his senses sharpen in on the inside of the room. There were two sets of breath, the scrape of chains, and the sound of a page being turned. The ground creaked in a repetitive manner, like the shifting of a rocking chair on uneven floor. That sound was closer to the window than the chains, and he could only hope luck was on his side. His wings folded away and he slowly pulled the shutter open, careful not to make any noise. Luck truly was on his side that day. Perhaps he should go on escapades of his own more often?

The window was open and there, sitting almost directly in front of it, back to Jaskier, was a man. Directly across the room, Yennefer laid, chained to the bed looking sick, barely lucid and overly thin, yet somehow still ethereal.

And that did some weird things to his heart. Which it shouldn’t. He didn’t _like_ Yennefer, even if they’d had that weirdly charged moment back in Cintra. Why was he getting angry on her account? Why was he even _here_? Whatever the case, he was there, and he was planning on going through with it. From his perch, Jaskier reached forward and knocked the man, who he assumed was Lord Azul, on his temple with the butt of his knife, and he crumpled forward. Then he dropped in through the window and made his way to where Yennefer was laying. She looked up at him in confusions, and he couldn’t really blame her. Normally, it was Geralt doing the rescuing.

“Hi Yen,” his voice was cheery, “Any clue where the keys to this whole mess are?” He asked with a flick of his wrist, an awkward gesture to the state she was in.

“They’re on,” she let out a huff, “Azul.” It was obvious that the cuffs were hurting her, and he wondered for a moment how long she’d been there for.

He made his way over to the prone figure. “This one?” He asked, toeing the now snoring man in his overly large stomach, even though he was still slouched in the chair. It was an oddly comical gesture, and he managed it with a sort of grace and balance that most wouldn’t come close to managing. She nodded. He saw a key on a leather cord around the unconscious man’s neck, and he yanked it off with a forceful tug. Jaskier was oddly satisfied when the man collapsed onto the ground with the force of it, his head meeting the wooden floor with a hard thud. He turned his sunny smile onto Yennefer. “Is this it?” And the way she jerked towards it probably meant yes. He walked over and she tried to grab it out of his hands. As much as he’d love to just give them to her, the cuffs didn’t give her enough leeway to get the cuffs off of herself. He softly grabbed her wrist and unlocked the cuff. Immediately he dropped the key into her hand, letting her free herself the rest of the way. It was the least he could do to alleviate the embarrassment of the situation.

About a minute passed as she caught her breath, and he glanced around the room. There were books and whiskey, and what looked like it could be a bloodstain on the floor. Nothing overly interesting.

“Why are you here Jaskier.” Her voice was soft and confused and tired.

“We were in town, but Geralt is out on a contract right now. I heard some rumors about you and decided to slip on in and lend some help.” He turned away from her and towards the man, who he toed at again, before sending her a bright smile over his shoulder, saying, “and I was bored.”

They worked their way out of the house, Yennefer explaining that over her time her she’d learned that no one else lived here, and they slipped out the back gate.

“I‘ve been planning an escape for weeks, you know. I would have gotten out on my own,” she commented idly as they reach the bar.

The claim made Jaskier smile, “I know, but like I said, I was bored.” And he really did know that. The Witch constantly has something up her sleeve, and even after saving her, he was still terrified of her, just a little bit.

They sat and shared drinks, and the bartender didn’t really cross his mind again that night. 

“Hey geralt!” Jaskier yelled when he saw Geralt slink in to the tavern, covered in dark blood that wasn’t his own. “Look who I found!”

+1)  
The three of them all left at the same time, and decided to head to the next town together. Yennefer kept sending Jaskier odd looks, like she was trying to read him, and he didn’t like it one bit.

Oddly enough, that was really the only thing he disliked about traveling with her. Sure, the way Geralt looked at her made the jealous little serpent in his gut rear it’s head, but he also noticed that Geralt _didn’t_ send her the soft little looks he and Geralt often exchanged, which felt like a cooling salve on his hurt ego. And anyways, having someone to talk to was nice, not that he didn’t enjoy Geralt’s company, but it was nice to throw barbs back and forth with someone, like he’d done back at Oxenfurt. One memorable night, they were all sat around a campfire and Jaskier pulled out his lute. And Yennefer started singing. And they sang together.

Geralt looked at them like they were something to be treasured, and even though it was the softest Jaskier had seen him look at her, he couldn’t find it in himself to be at all upset, not when it was directed at him.

Not when he knew he was looking at Yennefer with something close to reverence in his heart.

The arrived at another town, and decided to rest there for a night. Jaskier played in a crowded tavern, Yennefer flitted off the help some rich people for a handsome sum of money, and Geralt set off trying to find any contracts in the relatively large town. One night became two, and then three. They worked in tandem with each other. It was peaceful in a warm sort of way that Jaskier never thought he’d bore of.

So it was just his luck that, one day, while he was walking through the middle of the bustling market, an oddly familiar, broad bald man approached him.

“Hello, bard.”

And then Jaskier saw the sky, and then black.

He woke up in a dirty cell, feeling like molasses ran through his veins in lieu of blood. There were brick walls, and everything felt damp. A barred window near the top of the wall illuminated the grimy space. There were two sets of sturdy looking manacles attached to the walls. He was probably underground.

Jaskier moved on to taking inventory of himself. His arms and upper body were tied up with rope, in such an intricate and tight pattern that he couldn’t shift his arms from where they were held behind his back. It wasn’t wholly uncomfortable, just wildly inconvenient. He couldn’t necessarily pull his wings with rope laced over where they would be. Which wasn’t really ideal, but if he needed to, he’d find a way. His legs were free to move, and he stand up with a little effort.

The way he was tied up was disconcerting. There was always a chance he was tied up so his back was restricted on purpose.

Hopefully, Geralt and maybe even Yennefer would be coming to get him, and he wouldn’t have to do anything rash to get out, like break his arms so he could pull his wings.

Some time passed before the fat, droopy looking Lord Henry Azul waltzed into his cell like he was a god. He really just looked like an old hunting dog, jowls and all.

“Hello,” the lord said, curiosity in his gravelly voice.

Jaskier was worried. Sure, they could have taken him as a sort of punishment for breaking Yennefer out. Worse though, someone could have seen his wings while he broke her out, and now Lord Azul wanted them. His entire life was at risk, in the most painful soft of way.

When someone has their wings removed, which in and of itself is agonizing, they start to die, slowly. They wither away like a flower wilting and turning to dust. Until one day they just can’t get up anymore.

So yes, Jaskier was worried, but he didn’t let it show, he couldn’t, not if he wanted to stay alive. Instead, he slid a bright smile over his features and replied, “Hello!”

His odd choice of response seemed to intrigue the lord even more. The door was heavy-set wood behind Azul. He walked forward to where Jaskier sat on the floor, in the middle of the room, and with his arms bound behind him, pulling his shoulders back so much, he felt bare and on display. With nothing to do about it, Jaskier just played into it.

“You’re a pretty creature...” he said, towering over Jaskier. “I understand why my guard thought you were here to see me. You’re just my type,” his grin was leering and a wave of disgust washed over him. How utterly despicable.

He let none of those thoughts run over his face though, just looked away as if he was taking the room in. “I’m most people’s type,” he said with a smug grin that he did not feel at all. He was a performer though, and he knew how to please a crowd.

Even if the crowd was one, disgustingly overbearing man, and he was in a cell in the middle of a nowhere town.

Azul just snorted and left.

Jaskier waited roughly three minutes until he let himself curl up, let the emotions he was holding at bay flood back in. He felt violated by the way that man’s eyes roamed over his form, but he couldn’t seem weak or scared. Something told him that that man would be more likely to jump him if he was cowering in a corner than if he was giving freely. A hunter, going for the weak and vulnerable prey. He’d felt disgusting as he’d held himself up at the man’s gaze. 

He hoped that Geralt and Yen showed up before- before.

Well.

He closed his eyes as he leaned against the damp wall. It was cold and uncomfortable but he didn’t want to have to kill anyone else who was around. Any guards or family. Yen had said there wasn’t anyone around when they’d left the first time but that could have changed. He didn’t want to risk it.

And honestly? He just _didn’t want to kill anyone_. The feeling of someone’s life slipping from them under Jaskier’s grasp was too close to satisfaction, and it terrified him. Winged people were like humans, yes, but also like birds of prey. He couldn’t succumb to those instincts, that satisfaction of the hunt. Couldn’t lose his humanity like that.

As he leaned against the wall, pulled his mind from those thought and let it wander over the past week instead. How nice it had been to exist in the heat that Geralt and Yennefer brought to each other. A thought occurred to him then, bitter on his tongue. What if they didn’t come, too wrapped up in each other to notice his absence, or to care about it? A shudder wracked his body. He only had Geralt, and maybe now, just barely Yennefer. He had no one else. No family he could turn to, just family he ran from. If they didn’t come for him, didn’t care, Jaskier mused, he might just let himself die here.

Jaskier had left for the market around noon, and he still wasn’t back. The sun was beginning to arc downward, the golden light catching the tops of the trees to cast lengthy shadows across the ground. Geralt paced the length of his room, and Yen was perched on the side of his bed.

“Maybe he got distracted by someone pretty on the way there or back? He seems the type,” The witch murmured softly, an attempt to be reasonable, he was sure, yet the accusation bubbled under his skin like anger.

He turned to her with a sharp glare. “He doesn’t do that,” he growled. “He doesn’t drop his responsibilities to mess around.”

He went back to pacing.

“I wasn’t drawing poor conclusions about his person, Geralt,” she said, her voice soft in a way it often wasn’t, “If he doesn’t normally do this then let’s go look for him.”

Geralt’s scowl grew softer at her voice. “Thank you, Yen.”

“Sing for me.”

The voice startled Jaskier out of his fitful sleep. Lord Azul stood slouched against the doorframe, the door closed firmly behind him.

He was careful to not snap up into a sitting position like his mind screamed at him to do, instead making a show of stretching and sitting up. Don’t show fear, don’t show weakness. His shoulders were so tense from being held back as they were, and his arms ached. His neck hurt. His head hurt. His heart hurt.

He forced a sleepy smile, like he’d just woken up from the best sleep of his life. “Why d’you want that?” He forced innocence into his voice, faked blinking sleep out of his eyes. He didn’t need to, he was more awake and alert than he almost ever was when traveling with Geralt.

“You know why,” his eyes flashed in the dying light, a smirk growing on his lips, “little bard.”

This was his chance to test the waters. The man hadn’t mentioned his wings yet, and Jaskier was growing hopeful that maybe he didn’t know. Which would mean that his capture was solely as retribution for taking the lord’s witch. “I guess I might have an idea. People do often say that my voice is my most beautiful feature.” That was a perfect opening to bring up his wings if the lord knew, practically impossible to pass up. Azul could easily mention that his wings are prettier. Hopefully not-

“Prove it to me.”

And hidden in those words were oceans of lust, and this couldn’t be happening, not yet. The relief of his secret being safe was cut short, practically non existent, at the way his voice sounded. It made him sick. This wasn’t enough time-

“Untie me and bring me a lute, and you’ve got a deal,” he said over his inner panic, keeping his face neutral. Playing into the man’s fantasy was the wrong choice. He could deal with this.

If Azul tried anything more than just listening, Jaskier would have his arms free, and he would _kill_ this man. As it were, Jaskier wouldn’t make the first move. That is, he even untied Jaskier at all. Call it a test. Test your surroundings, over and over again, see where you can push, what buttons you can press to get out.

The man laughed, something heavy darkening his tone. “I can do that, but I’ll have to tie you back up again after,” he replied, and the mirthful way he said it made it sound like flirting, like foreplay, and Jaskier could barely keep the need to vomit from showing up on his face. He could only force a smile. 

The two went out to the market. Yen asked vendors if they’d seen the bard. A few had, most hadn’t. Geralt spent his time scenting the air for the distinct sweet earthy scents Jaskier always smelled of. When he caught something, he started following it with a single mind and it led him to an ally right near the edge of the market. At this spot, the scent just disappears. No other traces. Yet with it mingled something odd. It smelled like Yennefer had the night Jaskier had found her. (Jaskier has never explained _how_ or _why_ he’d found Yennefer. It was her later who had explained that she was being kept in the Lord’s home against her will that somewhat enlightened him on the situation. He still wasn’t sure how Jaskier has managed, but after almost 20 years spent with the bard, he was used to Jaskier pulling surprising, sometimes inhuman stunts. That was just how Jaskier was.)

He turned to find Yennefer following after, her eyes squinting in confusion and looking off in the distance. “Yen. This smells like him and the lord who’d taken you, but it stops here,” he grunts.

“There’s traces of a portal being opened here. Heavy handed and recent. The traces are so clear that I could easily reopen it,” she said, looking Geralt in the eyes.

There was fear there, but even more so determination, and a fire that was so distinctly Yennefer.

The Lord came back with a lute, and Jaskier held himself as still as a statue while the man’s clammy fingers made fast work of the complicated knots. Azul slid the cheap instrument into his now freed hands, and sat back against the wall. His eyes looked black, his expression hungry. He took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders, wincing at the way they popped.

Jaskier let his eyes fall closed. He was scared. He could break free right now. But that could put other people in his path, and he didn’t want to kill anyone other than the monster in front of him.

He could barely admit it to himself, but Jaskier also wanted to see if Geralt and Yen would come for him. At least Geralt. He just-

He was weak.

So he let his fingers start to work, and the music filled the damp space.

He let his voice float, thought of Yennefer and Geralt’s bright eyes, the way they looked at each other with fire and heat. His voice broke as he sang one of the lines, and he shuddered in disgust as he heard a moan from Azul that followed. He opened his eyes to see the repulsive man palming himself through his breeches. Jaskier felt like he was going to throw up. He pinned his eyes shut, and thought of the only people in the world he cared about.

Jaskier played louder than he had in awhile, his fingers rubbing raw on the rough, cheap strings that sounded reedy to his ear, hoping to block out the disgusting man in front of him, lest it become too much to handle. He sang like he was screaming, let the hurt and pain and fear that he’d been hiding out through his song. He almost couldn’t hear the abomination in front of him shudder and moan through an orgasm.

The man barely let him finish singing before he shoved still sticky hands all over his arms to re-tie the rope. He put the lute in the corner a promise for later that made Jaskier sick, and he left.

Jaskier dry heaved in the corner. If this continued...

He was hungry and thirsty and he felt so, so vile. He curled into a ball, wishing he could pull his arms to his chest but they were still stuck behind his back and slathered in Lord Azul’s spend. He coughed again, let his skull fall to the hard floor, let his cheek rest against the disgusting ground.

In the next moment however, many things happened. The air shifted to something clearer, cleaner, and he pulled himself up to see a portal open, relief flooding his weak stomach. Then Geralt- _his sweet, good, kind beautiful Geralt_ \- and Yennefer stumbled through. He had just made eye contact with them when the air turned hazy with something heavy and magical, the portal closed, and darkness engulfed them. He barely managed to see Yennefer and Geralt fall to the ground before he was asleep again.

He woke up to morning light streaming through the window, cold sleeping into his bones, and he looked around to see Geralt and Yennefer chained to the walls, and he should have realized sooner.

Two sets of chains, both embezzled with magic cutting symbols, and he was tied with rope.

It was all a trap.

And if Jaskier had just left as soon as he could, maybe they wouldn’t- maybe they’d be safe-

He was selfish and he was weak.

The two were still passed out, but Yennefer was stirring and shifting against her restraints. He crawled over to her to try to wake her. He couldn’t shake her, so he nudged her with his shoulder. 

“Yennefer, come on,” he pleaded quietly, “wake up.”

There was a certain sort of relief upon seeing her purple eyes slowly flutter open that Jaskier was surprised at feeling. It was overwhelming, actually, and he let his head fall onto her shoulder. He took a deep breath, and she smelled like jasmine, lavender, and something else, and it was so nice after the damp smell of mold and mildew, like a freshly planted garden full of untouched beauty. Even still, he pulled himself up and smiled at her before crawling over to Geralt, who was still slouched down against the cold bricks.

With the position he was sat in, there was no good way for Jaskier to nudge Geralt with his shoulder. Instead he let himself slide down until he was sat as low he could while still on his knees, then nudged his head into Geralt’s ribs. He was warm and comfortable and if Yennefer was a garden, Geralt was the home to which it belonged, to which Jaskier belonged, and he pushed his head into him again, more of a nuzzle, and only half for Geralt’s sake. Jaskier needed this contact after everything.

His voice was weak. “Geralt,” he managed, and he felt the muscles shift in his companion’s abdomen. Bolstered, he tried again. “Geralt, come on, you can- you need to-“

He blinked back tired tears as he heard chains shift next to him, felt tough fingers run through his hair, his hoarse but unmistakable voice asked, “Jask?” And a moment later “Yennefer?”

Jaskier sat up, and gold met blue, a bright sun in vibrant skies, the sand under the waves, and Jaskier loved him more than anything in the world. And that wasn’t really a surprise, but it still hurt. He made to move to a respectable distance, but Geralt reached for him and caught his arm. At least he had use of his hands, even if he couldn’t move around.

“Stay, please,” Geralt said, and his voice was shaky. Jaskier could only nod and curl into his side.

And then the door opened.

Lord Henry Azul waltzed in like a kid at a candy store, and maybe to him he was one. “Somehow I knew this would work,” he started with a slimy grin, “but I didn’t expect this,” he continued, all too pleased as he gestured to Jaskier held in one of Geralt’s arms.

“What do you want now, Azul?” Yennefer snapped, “You have me again, let them go.”

Geralt snapped her name, but he was ignored by both Yen and the lord.

He looked at her, gaze roaming over her form. “You always were so feisty, witch. But I think I’ll keep them too.” He smiled. “Admittedly, I was going to release the bard once he’d served his purpose as bait for you two, but he’s proven to be quite fun. And now, seeing how much he seems means to you two, I think I might make you watch us.”

That ripped a deep growl from Geralt’s throat, and Jaskier couldn’t help the full body shudder that he hid in Geralt’s side. Still, Jaskier nudged his shoulder into Geralt’s side before sliding away. Geralt tried to grab him and drag him back but he slipped past his hand.

“Why? Why do this?” Jaskier asked, holding himself up in front of the man, putting himself between the people he cared about and this predator. He had a sick, sinking feeling that he knew why, but he had to hear it.

“I’m a hunter, my little bard. I like to watch my prey suffer as it dies, and I like to go for the hardest to break.” He reaches out, catching Jaskier’s chin in a caress that had chills running down his spine, and it was all he could do not to flinch. Chains snapped against each other and rung through the space as Geralt yanked at his bindings repeatedly, and Yennefer snarled, “get your hand off of him.” He ignored them both, simply continuing by tilting his head up. “You, darling, have been surprisingly hard to break. And now I’m invested.” 

He shoved Jaskier’s from where he’d gripped his chin, sending the bard crashing down onto his side. Pain shot through his shoulder, but there was nothing he could do. He could only watch as Azul walked up to Geralt, just out of reach of his chained arms, and said, “I’ve always wanted to kill a witcher.”

Yen looked downright murderous, but it was obvious that the cuffs cut off her magic and were slowly leeching her energy away too. The words felt like frost in his chest, but he wouldn’t let them get hurt. He just had to think of something. He’d rip his own arms off and break his wings to protect them. All he needed to kill the man was his excess strength and his sharp teeth.

The man walked over to Yennefer next, and Geralt yanked on his chains again with another deep growl.

“I like you without your magic. You become so docile under my touch, like a tamed panther,” he purred, and leaned in close to smell her. Jaskier felt disgust crawling through his veins, clouding his mind. The way she just sat there, still as a statue, and looked across the room. Focused on something not in the room.

Geralt looked like a cornered animal, and he jerked the chains again; rage burned through his eyes and he looked like he was almost broken. Jaskier crawled over to him as best he could, and Geralt pulled him close immediately. Jaskier reveled in the warmth for moment.

“You have to calm down,” he whispered into Geralt’s shoulder. “This is exactly what he wants, and he’ll kill you as soon as you start boring him. Please. He wants you to break. Please don’t give him that satisfaction.” And Geralt was shaking, but he nodded once; he still held Jaskier close though. He knew that Azul would enjoy trying to rip them apart, that showing weakness to each other was a terrible idea, yet he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. He was selfish. So so selfish and weak.

A sharp pain landed on his ribs, and Azul laughed as Geralt dragged him closer with a growl. He couldn’t help the small whine that left his lips, and he heard the way the laugh turned into something darker.

“I’ll be seeing you all soon,” the man said, and he left.

A few moments passed in silence, before Yen’s voice broke through the air, “That bastard.” Her voice was quiet and rough and held just too much emotion in it too be comfortable for anyone.

“The chains won’t break,” Geralt growled.

“And I can’t do _anything_ in these damn cuffs,” Yen’s voice broke as she said the word anything, and Jaskier’s heart was crumpling. He wouldn’t let the bastard win.

Slowly, he pulled away from Geralt, who only growled at his movements. “Relax big guy, I’m the only one here who can move, so stop hogging me,” Jaskier said quietly, before making his way over to Yennefer. She seemed surprised as he laid his head on her shoulder, yet he was still rewarded with the tension seeping out of them. He felt her hesitantly rest her cheek on his hair, and he knew they’d always traded insults when they’d met up, but somewhere along the way they turned into something else and he was fairly certain that he was falling in love with her too. She finally relaxed backwards, and he followed her, curling around her like he had Geralt. He wished he could just bring his wings out and wrap them all up and never let go, but there wasn’t anything he could do with his arms bound without seriously injuring himself, and there wasn’t anything his companions could do about his arms, despite their ability to move their hands. The knots weren’t a type either of them knew, and they were intricately woven together. The only person who knew how to get the knots off was Azul, and he only seemed like he’d take them off if he was around-

And a plan started to form.

Thinking about it made his skin crawl. He wasn’t sure if Azul would only ask for his voice this time. He turned his head into Yen’s soft black hair to ground himself.

“Do you trust me?” Jaskier asked them, turning his head out.

“What?” Came Geralt’s confused grunt.

“I have to agree with the Witcher, Jaskier. What do you mean?” She asked.

He bowed his head a little, looking at the floor. “I have a plan,” the words were ground out as he thought of the man’s thick, dirty hands touching his skin, “but I have to know if you two trust me.” He needed this. Needed them. He trusted them. Know all he needed was their trust in him. 

“Jask, of course,” Geralt ground out, sounding at a loss.

“If you try to pull some self sacrificing bullshit bard-“ Yennefer began.

Jaskier cut her off, “oh, do you mean like what you did at the beginning there?” He asked in a slightly cutting tone, “I just need to know that you trust me,” he met her eyes, and hoped she understood. _Please trust me, please, just let me do this, I need this. Please._

Something shifted in her gaze, something vulnerable, and she nodded, just barely, and wet her lip.

And there was that warmth again. That feeling of safety he only got when he was between these two.

The day passed, and they all fell asleep at some point, Jaskier once again pressed into Yennefer’s side. Jaskier woke up at some point in the night and shifted to lay against Geralt’s sleeping form, and fell back asleep. He woke again, this time to finger running through his hair. He stayed still as Geralt and Yen talked quietly. Rather, Yen would say something and Geralt would grunt in response. His hand brushed passed Jaskier’s ear and he let himself smile slightly. The moment of peace was broken by the sound of approaching footsteps, and Jaskier snapped upright before the man could see them.

He murmured one last “trust me” before the door opened and Lord Henry Azul walked in.

It was inevitable, really. They had to find out sometime, whether it was simply from the fact that he just didn’t age, or from something like this. Geralt was always going to learn, and he was oddly okay with Yennefer knowing as well.

“Let me put on a show for you,” Jaskier rasped, and his voice was rough from lack of water, but he knew that would only make Azul more _into_ it, to hear his pain, and Jaskier could only hope that maybe it would satisfy this beast of a man.

“Stop it Jaskier. Don’t do this,” Yen warned. Geralt just growled.

Something lit up in Azul’s eyes. “You want it, don’t you?” He asked, and the words caused snakes of disgust to shoot down his spine and up his throat but he just held eye contact. “You want my cock down your pretty little throat.”

Geralt roared at that, and even Yen yanked on her chains. Hot shame swept through him at the knowledge that Geralt and Yennefer have to see him do this, but he’d do it for them. No matter what. He’d run himself raw just to keep them safe, happy.

“You can’t hear me _sing_ if my mouth is otherwise occupied, my Lord,” he said as he looked up through his eyelashes at the man. He felt so sick. Encouraging this. It was vile.

“Sing for me, then.”

He hoped this worked. For his sake, and for the sakes of Geralt and Yennefer, who were respectively shaking and stock still with rage. “You know I can’t sing with out a lute,” he said, letting something slick slip into his tone. His mouth tasted like oil to match.

“What’s a little foreplay?” The man asked in a growl of lust, and moved to untie the bard. This close he could hear the slight shake of keys on his person. This was going perfectly. As perfect as it could, protested the stomach acid that filled his throat sour. Protested the chains that held Geralt. Protested the light in Yennefer’s eyes.

And the rope slipped away.

Jaskier rolled his shoulders, and Azul stepped away to get the lute, his back to Jaskier.

Jaskier let them roll out of his back, felt them slide out in slow motion, the cramped muscles and joints popping and pulling. The gasp from Yennefer. The silence, the ceasing of motion from Geralt. And he sat there, on his knees in the middle of the cell, his wings filling the small space.

Standing up wasn’t so difficult, not with the adrenaline that seeped through his blood, and Jaskier waited for Azul to turn and see him, wanted to see the terror on the man’s disgusting face.

When the lord turned, the lute fell to the ground, clanging in dissonent chords that rang through the room. Jaskier stepped forward, and that seemed to snap the man out of his stupor; he made to turn but Jaskier was faster and stronger, he was on him in a moment, could feel the way his claws tore through the cheap shirt, and yanked him forwards. He wrapped his wings around them both, blocking Yennefer and Geralt’s view.

“Some privacy,” Jaskier said with a sneer, “ _my lord._ ”

Azul tried to squirm away, to punch, to defend himself, but he was truly powerless as Jaskier grabbed the man’s crouch and _ripped_. The scream rang in Jaskier’s ears, and he reached up and yanked the chord of keys off his neck.  
“You don’t learn, do you?” He asked, barely giving Azul a moment to process before his hands laid on the squishy flesh of his neck and scalp, and Jaskier snapped his neck. The scream fell silent, fell like the lifeless body that crumbled to the ground as Jaskier let it go.

The snap had reverberated in his bones, and he had needed it. Needed the way the body went limp, fell to the ground beneath them. Needed to keep his people safe.

He turned and made quick work of unlocking Yen first, before quickly getting to Geralt. The locks fell away, and the two just stared. He felt a bone deep exhaustion settle over him as the stared. He couldn’t look them in the eyes. If he saw horror there-

He didn’t know when the tears started, but they stung hot on his cheeks and choked him so he couldn’t breathe. Then he was being pulled into Geralt’s chest, and Yen was hugging him too, and he just.

He hugged back, wrapped his wings around them and simply _sobbed_.

If anyone looked in at that moment, they would just see a cocoon of feathers and a dead body, but it was warm and safe for once and Jaskier let himself be held as he cried. Let himself hold onto those he loved.

They made it out easily, portaled back to their inn and left the corpse of Henry Azul to rot with his shitty guard and mage’s.

They sat in Jaskier’s room, let him bathe and drink some water before asking him what happened.

He knew they would. It didn’t make it any less uncomfortable. 

“The winged people never went extinct,” he began carefully. “They just learned to hide.”

His wings were a beautiful light, iridescent blue on the inside, and a dark navy, almost black on the outside. He’d always thought they were pretty, but he didn’t have much of a frame of reference, didn’t know if they were average compared to most.

“My mom gave me up through the law of surprise. Before she gave me away, she told me to never tell anyone about my wings,” he said softly. “So I didn’t. I heard rumors of people selling wings, hunting my people for them, and we’d all hidden by that point but people still believed we were out there. They still hunted us. You two are the only living people who know about my wings,” he explained, voice heavy. He knew he couldn’t leave it out, couldn’t omit details because then it would be practically be lying at the point and they were too important to him. They’d understand. They trusted him. “I kill anyone who finds out. That’s how I’ve lived since childhood. That’s why I don’t- I haven’t-“ he cut himself off. He never would have killed Geralt after the three years of traveling with him. After ten, the Witcher could probably have drawn a sword on him and he would just let it happen. Yennefer is a different story. He’s under no illusion to think that he could kill her, but he wouldn’t give himself up to her without a fight. At least not before this happened. Now, he trusted her. And for him, that was a rare thing. Jaskier let himself fall in love with everyone he met, let himself feel the loss of connection as they left his bed, and they walked away from him, as their smiles faded from his mind. But he didn’t trust anyone except Geralt, and now Yennefer, which was rash but he kind of had to. He didn’t have much of a choice in the matter, lest he wanted to leave them all to suffer. And that really wasn’t much of a choice, was it?

Geralt looked mildly perturbed by the revelation, but Yennefer just looked enraptured. “Can I see them again?” She asked with a glint in her eye that was slightly off putting, yet when she caught his hesitation she acquiesced, “you don’t have to, Jaskier. They’re just beautiful.” And something in the sincerity made him push his wings out, spread them wide in the room.

At this, Geralt looked at Jaskier, in all of his nervous glory, and let out a huff. Something shifted. “It explains a lot.” The look in his eyes was soft and warm, forgiving, with just a touch of heat.

Jaskier smiled at him. Meanwhile, Yennefer walked around him with a sort of appreciation in her step; she reached out and picked up his hand, inspecting it. “You have talons,” she noted with bright eyes, mindlessly kneading his palm where she held his hand in hers. The feeling was pleasant and he flexed his hand, his claws stretching out before drawing in almost completely.

He hummed, relaxing, “I tend to think of them more as claws, but yes, I suppose I do have talons.”

Yen looked up to face him, her eyes wide. “Open your mouth,” she ordered, and Jaskier couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he did so. He knew she’d be seeing the way his canines jutted out longer than normal, and his flat front teeth extended into blunt point that were razor sharp to the touch. The got in the way of his speech, softened his consonants ever the slightest. She reached up to touch them, and he let her, knowing what would happen.

“Oh!” She breathed, pulling her pointer away from his canine. A drop of blood welled up from a pinprick in the skin, and he could smell the coppery scent easily. “This is magic, isn’t it?” She asked, curiosity shining warm in her eyes.

“The only magic I know of is in transforming, yes. I also have a sort of enhanced set of senses and abilities. More speed and strength, better hearing, eyesight, smell, the likes,” he indulged, before continuing, “I can’t do anything else.”

“That’s a shame-“ she began, but Jaskier cut her off as he remembered something.

“That! And I haven’t aged a day since I turned eighteen! You both must have thought I was just gifted with unnaturally youthful looks,” he said smugly.

Yennefer smiled briefly, before she covered it. “It’s occurring to me now that I may not really remember quite how humans age.” Geralt grunted at that, an agreement, and Jaskier laughed.

A laugh that cut off into a moan as a hot, tingling sensation rushed through his wings and down his spine. He snapped his mouth shut as soon as he realized what happened, and shot his gaze over to where Geralt stood, frozen, with his hand running through Jaskier’s feathers. His eyes were wide and Jaskier could hear his normally slow heartbeat pick up slightly. He heard Yen’s breath hitch in the silent room. It felt like an eternity of the three of other hanging there, waiting for something-

And then Geralt did it again.

The feeling was absolutely mind blowing, his feathers shifting in their delicate positions, rubbing against each other- another low moan pulled itself from his throat before he could stop it. He was staring straight into Geralt’s eyes, and he watched as his pupils dilated, his gaze turned into something hungry.

Yen let out a breath. “You seem to like that,” she said, and there was a heat in her eyes too as he looked at her, and he was _weak_ for it.

“No- ah,” Geralt ran his hand through his feathers again, and a shudder ran through him, his wings stretching with a shake as they tried to realign themselves. That seemed to startled Geralt into stopping, and that wasn’t what he wanted at all. “No one has ever touched them before. I didn’t realize it would feel so- pleasurable.”

Yennefer took a step forward, and her gaze shifted to Geralt’s. Something seemed to pass between them, and Jaskier’s eyes darted back and forth. He felt like he was about the be hunted, and it was absolutely thrilling. Heat was already pooling I’m his stomach, making him half hard in his pants.

Jaskier nearly short circuited as they both reached out and ran their hands through his feathers at the same time.

“Oh gods!” It come out a breathy whine that he couldn’t even be ashamed of. Then he was being pushed against the wall by two hands, one soft and delicate, the other rough and large, and Geralt kissed him like a dying man chasing air. The kiss was still somehow soft, and oh so good, and Jaskier couldn’t seem to breath. A pair of warm, soft lips attacked his neck, and yes, yennefer was licking his jaw, and- he gasped into the kiss as she nipped at his earlobe. Geralt took the moment to slip his tongue into Jaskier’s mouth and there was so so much going on, fingers in his feathers and a mouth on his neck, a tongue in his mouth, and thank gods he remembered to dull his teeth as much as he could when the two start kissing.

Somewhere along the way clothes were lost (Jaskier had had to retract his wings to get his clothes off, and he barely managed to stop Geralt from simply ripping them off of him because it took too long and he didn’t want to remove his hand from Jaskier’s wing.) and Geralt and Yennefer pushed Jaskier down on the bed and crawled over him so he was powerless to do nothing but lay there as they kissed his exposed skin and kneaded at his wings.

Yennefer settled over his chest, and he wanted, he needed so badly. “Please,” he gasped grabbing her wrist, “I want-“ a hitch in his breath as Geralt bit a spot on his thigh, sucked and lavished it with his tongue, “to taste you,” he whined. He knew it wasn’t his brightest idea; his teeth weren’t so sharp as to draw blood at a touch, but they still weren’t quite human. Even yet, he wanted to so badly.

That’s how he found himself drawing beautiful music from Yennefer’s lips as she sat over him. Geralt sunk his mouth down onto Jaskier’s member, and he moaned. He lapped into Yennefer’s heat , sucking and licking as wetness dripped down his chin.

There was so much stimulation. The taste and the feeling of silky slick skin his mouth, the way Yen moaned as she came, the skin pulsing; the wet heat engulfing his cock like it was nothing, Geralt’s tongue running heavy up the underside only to run along his slit a moment later. And the hands, oh! The hands in his wings were heaven, sending electricity running over his skin, lighting down his spine, and he writhed on the cheap bed as Yen shifted away so she could kiss him. His wings flapped once, then stretched as far as they’d go, pulled taught as he came down the Witcher’s throat with a shout.

As Geralt worked him through it, Jaskier’s wings curled up and around the three of them, engulfing them all in warmth and safety. Jaskier was _glowing_ with it all, and he wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t white out for a moment. A moment passed and he sat up, folded his wings away. Yen and Geralt were kissing, but the Witcher was still hard and the sight sent a lazy strum of heat through him. He’d been able to taste Yen, now he wanted the ultimate treat.

Geralt was larger than most, endowed like a bull, and Jaskier’s mouth watered at the thought of having it down his throat. He pawed at the man’s thigh, then pushed his lips over than man’s erection. The bitter taste lingered on his tongue, and it was good, so good. Jaskier took his time, worked over the head of his cock first, tongue laving over the slit, before sinking farther and farther down. The head hit the back of his throat, and Geralt’s hips jerked forwards. Jaskier just hummed, before consciously loosening his throat as much as he could and going _further_. A few minutes of bobbing and humming and licking later and Geralt was coming in hot bursts down his throat.

The three laid in an easy silence after, Yen and Jaskier curled on either side Geralt.

Jaskier knew, as he slipped into the warm embrace of sleep, that this was _exactly_ where he wanted to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes a plot bunny hops into your brain and says, you should write this fic!! And you say, yea I should!! But ya know what, I want Jaskier to have wings in it. But geralt and yen already know about the wings, so you have to write something to explain how they learned about the wings, and then it just gets out of hand and before you know it your first idea is rendered moot at what you’ve just written and ya know what? It’s okay. It’s fine.


End file.
